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About Bologna

Here’s a fucked-up fact: some girls tattoo their pimp’s name on ‘em. Loyalty or slavery? Pisses me off, man! Ain’t no freedom in that game. But then, some of ‘em are slick—heard this one chick in Vegas faked bein a cop to shake down her clients. Ballsy! Had me crackin up, like, “Motherfucker, that’s some next-level hustle!” Surprised the shit outta me—thought I’d seen it all.

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So, I’m leaving the bar, feeling like a champ. The streets are lit up, and I’m just soaking it all in. Ozieri, with its narrow alleys and old buildings, feels alive. I’m walking down Via Vittorio Emanuele, and I can’t help but laugh. What a day, right?

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